


When You Lose Something You Can't Replace

by detective_in_training



Category: Sherlock (TV), Third Star (2010)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Character Death, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Goodbyes, John Needs A Hug, M/M, Pain, Tragedy: Death of a Brother, What have I written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detective_in_training/pseuds/detective_in_training
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and James are twins, separated by fate but linked by a lifetime of shared memories. It will take somebody of immense strength to try and piece Sherlock back together, but at times, some damage goes too deep.</p><p>"And the tears come streaming down your face,<br/>When you lose something you can't replace.<br/>When you love someone, but it goes to waste,<br/>Could it be worse?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Lose Something You Can't Replace

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a genial and oh-so-angsty tumblr prompt from [thoroughlysherlocked](http://thoroughlysherlocked.tumblr.com/)  
> and I'm really grateful to her - so head over to her page and give her a John hedgehog... or jam.

Following the solemn funeral ceremony, Sherlock returned home with the rest (- the remnants of - he’d then go on to describe it) of his family. His mother locked herself away in her room, to grieve her pain in tears and one too many a drink. Mycroft gave himself up to his work, not returning from his government office for weeks on end. But Sherlock…well…he’d wake up as usual; spend hours at his laboratory as usual; keep utterly and completely to himself as usual. Everybody simply assumed that Sherlock being Sherlock, he’d simply obliterated the anguish disguising it as some scientific fact. Walled it off into some tiny part of his soul, unreachable and inconsolable, and then proceeded to move on; operating almost robotically at times, seemingly unshaken and unconcerned. Often, when his mother would wake in the middle of the night, her pillow soaking with sleep-shed tears, she would find him roaming the vast and silent house. At first she had approached him cautiously, as one would to a feral animal, and gently inquired about how he’s coping with the loss, but he had just shrugged off her advances, and muttered that “Caring is not an advantage”, stalking back to his laboratory. After that, she left him to his nightly wanderings. After all, he always had been the strange, silent one.  
  
Not James, though. No. From the moment he was born, he’d been different. He had stretched out his chubby, little arms and cheerfully flailed them at her, gurgling happy baby sounds. Sherlock, born a few minutes later, had been so silent and stiff that the doctors had feared brain damage, at best. They’d grown up together, inseparable, joined at the hip almost. However, while James would clamber trees and skin knees, chasing pigeons and throwing cartwheels across the lawn, Sherlock would quietly read a book next to him, pause to carefully observe and cross-reference a caterpillar, and give a slow smile of contentment at his wild, carefree twin. They were so identical in sight, down to the last hair, that even their mother often couldn't tell them apart if it weren't for the obvious character differences. The vivacious and animated one, and the strange and silent one. Her heart filled with love for both, but she always felt somewhat wary when Sherlock was around. He intimidated her, from a very early age, spouting strange facts and delighting in experiments she didn’t even want to consider. She’d console herself that it was just a passing phase, one which most boys go through, but as time passed, she gave up trying to interest him in what she saw was the good and proper, rough-and-tumble life that James led. She was fortunate - she’d catch herself thinking, and then feel guilty about such a sinful thought - that at least one of her twins was normal. James, of course, was delighted to have such a smarty-pants for a brother; one who would quietly admire him from afar and offer him advice about which wild plants he could eat on his camping expeditions, or which tree branch would bear his weight better while climbing for birds’ nests. And every now and then his hare brained actions would draw out a rare, blooming and fleeting smile from Sherlock. They’d spend most summer nights together, outside in the overgrown and expansive garden, sharing secret hideouts, building forts and bonfires, dreaming of adventures and designing complicated machinery; each in his own way, so different but yet so similar.  
  
Through the years, this quiet companionship between the twins blossomed, not distanced as so often happens with time and siblings. They relied on each other, finding solace in the simple presence of the other - two shadows of the same person. Where one went, the other followed, and any separation caused them both grief, even if Sherlock denied it, and James laughed it off. Obviously, they could not be side by side forever, or even everywhere, because as time passed, James - ever the popular one, especially with girls - started hanging out more and more often with his friends, eventually even spending weekends away from home. The final drop was when he announced that he was leaving to study at a prestigious art and music academy. Sherlock accepted defeat graciously, still adoring his twin in silence and listening wide eyed to James’s tales of debauchery when he’d return home for holidays, tanned and muscular, every so often bringing yet another clingy, simpering girl on his arm for his mother to sigh disparagingly at.  
  
Then at a point, the long semesters at college were interrupted. Then the ceaseless visits from artistic friends and eager girlfriends slowed and then finally shuddered to a halt. James became withdrawn and listless, sketching or writing in his room, covering the walls, the desk and floor with papers; sheaves of them everywhere. Sherlock would sit at the foot of James’ bed; still reading, still gazing with wonder at his brother, ignoring all the signs so clear in front of his scientific eyes that his brother was wasting away - simply vanishing before him.  
  
Specialists were called in by the dozen, offering cures and miracles and wonderful new treatments, many of which reduced James to a whimpering creature - one that Sherlock knew no longer. He could not - _would_ not - admit to himself, or anyone for that matter, that the one person he was devoted to and would gladly give his own valueless life for, was dying from cancer.  
  
Finally, in spring time, a small lull. The illness seemed to ebb away, nearly defeated, yet still lingering somewhere. Their mother, revived by all the flowers and scents and birdsong threw them a birthday party which James’s few staunchly remaining friends attended, cheerfully glossing over his ashen colour, sunken cheeks, walking stick and the permanent expression of suppressed pain etched in his once handsome face. They sung with him, linked arms and pretended that death was not knocking at the door. And Sherlock ran along the garden path to his little laboratory, and fuelled with indescribable rage smashed every last test tube, petri dish, and measuring cylinder he owned into smithereens, letting this crashing and smashing wash over him and carry him away to a place of peace and quiet, where he and his brother still played by the sea, chasing seagulls and writing in the sand.  
  
“One last camping trip”, he promised Sherlock. “Just one more, so that I can feel as alive as I used to all those years ago”. His friends will be side by side with him every step of the way, his medicines in his bag, he’ll be safe in his wheelchair - all geared up and ready to go, James joked. One last hug, and extra squeeze of hand for his brother, and they were off. And then three days later, the call. Two days later, the funeral. After that, nothing ever was the same.  
  
Following one of his nightly rounds of the echoing house, looking for respite and finding none, Sherlock impulsively pulled open the door to James’s room, the very same one they had shared for so many years until Sherlock decided it was too big for himself while James was away at college, and relocated all his things to a smaller, basement one. The room smelt musty, and with a pervasive tinge of medicine. The back of the door was covered with their childhood drawings - bright colourful crayons and sloppy watercolours. Sherlock felt a twinge of something sharp in his chest and breathed in and out, in and out, until the feeling passed. The bed, still unmade; a stained teacup lying on its side on the bedside table, covered in bottles and pills. It was evident that his mother had not yet gained enough strength, even two months later, to enter in here. This sanctuary of sadness and solitude. This mausoleum, rather.  
  
With the toe of his slipper he pushed a path through the haphazard drawings scattered everywhere blanketing the room, and blanketed by dust. It was almost too dark, but something inside Sherlock forbade him to reach for the lights, and anyway, he knew every inch of the room blindfolded. He was going to sit at the foot of the bed as he always had, but a step before it, his knees trembled and gave way, and he found himself kneeling by its side, hands clutching at the covers, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as his mind fought for control. Then, another paper between the sheets. Sherlock brought it out, lifting it up to the faint moonlight, readying himself for a familiar drawing sketched in the so-well-known hand. Instead, he stared at a small square of paper. ‘ _Dearest Sherlock_ ,’ it started.  
  
Sherlock jumped up and fled. Out of the room, down the corridor, out through the front door, out, down, anywhere, footsteps echoing like cannon shots, closing him inside a glass cage of sound while the only thing he felt was the paper, burning like hot coal, in his closed fist. He ran until he wept. He wept for the pain shooting through his body, he wept for the pain of his mother and Mycroft, he wept for the anguish of James’s friends, and as he started to make his way through the curling, familiar script of his brother, he wept in anguish and desolation for his own suffering, his lost brother and the realization that no matter how advanced his science or rational his thinking, they would never be reunited.  
  
 ‘ _Dearest Sherlock,_  
  
 _You are reading this, which is a good sign. It means that I am in a better place, and it also means that you are strong enough to face this on your own two feet. We shared a life of fantasy and adventure. We dreamed of being pirates, astronauts and deep sea explorers. And while I can no longer do any of those things, you still can, and I know - have always known - that you, my dear brother, can dream of things far greater than any other mind I have ever met. Not only dream them, but achieve them. As you will go through each step of your life-happy or sad, strong or weak, surrounded by friends or alone-I need you to know that I will be there, side by side with you, lending you a hand when the path seems weak, edging you on when you are so close to the finish line, and always, ALWAYS, Sherlock, watching over you._  
  
 _Remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one, and there is no tragedy in that._  
  
 _With all my heart and love,_  
  
 _James’_  
  


 * * * 

 

Soon after finding James’s letter, Sherlock left for London, in search of something new, something to take his mind off the pain. He had no plans, except that he needed to get away from the dismal atmosphere of suffocation and depression. His mother seemed relieved at his decision, and pressed a large cheque in his hand, telling him that he could do with a change of air. Secretly she was glad he was leaving, because every time she looked at Sherlock, she saw her dead son’s face staring back at her.

A few weeks of sleeping in shady motels was quite enough to make Sherlock long for the comforts of his old home, and against his wishes he forced himself to accept Mycroft’s offer to help him settle down in this wild, sprawling city.

Throughout their lives, Sherlock and James had hardly known their very much older brother. Yes, they’d see each other at Christmas and New Year, and maybe even during birthday parties - albeit infrequently and only for an hour at most each time - but there was no bond between them, no memories or occasions to link the brothers. Sherlock’s mother would proudly whisper, beaming with pride, to the neighbours who cared to listen, that her son, yes, the oldest one, was in a very important and powerful position with the British government. Thus, the twins had come to see him as this absent, abstract, aloof figure, who tended to condescendingly pat their heads and smile distractedly, and bring them very expensive presents when he remembered their existence.

So when Mycroft called Sherlock one fine day, to inform him about a suitable job for his astute and acute observational skills, Sherlock held his opinions about being tied to the government like a dog on a leash and rolling around in wealth while the rest of England’s population starved, to himself. The next morning found Sherlock making his way to the Scotland Yard, and before even Detective Inspector Lestrade finished reading Mycroft’s reference letter, Sherlock had scrutinized and analyzed everyone in the office and solved the case looking at the papers plastering the walls. Soon enough he was being called to the headquarters every other day to give advice and enigmatically deduce and decipher the toughest of crimes, leaving Lestrade shaking his head in surprise and amazement.

True to his word, Mycroft found him a nice flat in central London, where the landlady, Mrs. Hudson mothered Sherlock, who despised every second of it - though he didn’t mind the endless cups of tea. Still unsure on his feet in the strange city, he kept up a wall of snooty snobbishness refusing to give away any details about his life while observantly studying the people he met, which successfully alienated them. And since he found nothing wrong in telling a person what he could deduce about them in the first five seconds, he remained staunchly friendless, and somewhat lonely. Mycroft had attempted to explain gently that informing a person about their numerous affairs in the presence of their partner, or describing their nightly drug habits in front of their boss, was not a very good idea - since it would not always leave a positive impression; however, Sherlock stuck to his guns proclaiming that he was not causing anyone harm by pointing out the truth, and continued fighting crime in a world he saw as rife with trickery and deception.

He knew infinitely well that most people despised his observant guts and showed it quite as clearly, but he had his work and his experiments and so in his own, strange way, Sherlock was reasonably satisfied with life. Anyhow, it had been ages since he’d thought about James; and that’s the way he wished for things to remain.

 

 * * * 

 

 “Oh great, here comes the freak”, Sherlock heard the biting words aimed at him, once again. He closed his eyes and pretended he didn’t hear anything, which usually worked well enough, since Sergeant Donovan tended to ignore his presence, except for a cruel remark once in a while. Four years was plenty of time to get used to being called all sorts of names, and it didn’t even hurt anymore. Well, not so much at least.

He was on the banks of the Thames, which swirled darkly muddy, and sluggish. Without his morning tea he felt equally sluggish, especially having suffered another daily attack from Mrs. Hudson about not having friends or companions. She’d started a habit of inquiring in a seemingly friendly way about his state of health. Then her tone would become more bitter and exasperated as she moved on to commenting about his dangerous work, and finish off the tirade by pointing out his disparaging lack of “lady friends; but then with that attitude, what does one expect…” she’d shake her head and cluck to herself. This Spanish Inquisition did not suit Sherlock one bit; however, he’d quite taken to the apartment so he’d bestow a placating smile at his landlady, mutter something about being married to his work and rush away leaving his morning tea untouched.

Sherlock stared glumly at the immobile body in front of him. Donovan and some sergeant were discussing him within earshot as they were wont to do, and Lestrade was anxiously expecting some genius brainwave from him. So he sighed and bent near the body to inspect closely the wrists and neck of the deceased. He straightened himself up, and declared “Quite obviously it was the brother-in-law. Seriously, did none of you find the cut on his ear significant? Or the fact that only one of his cuff links was polished?” But to his surprise, nobody was listening. Never before had his words been ignored, even if they’d gone unappreciated… Feeling irritated at being dismissed so rudely, he turned to see Lestrade and Donovan shaking hands with someone. A few seconds later this someone was introduced to Sherlock as Dr. John Watson, an ex-army doctor who was to replace Anderson who was apparently away. Ignoring this new presence, he repeated his previous statement and stalked off huffily in search for a proper mug of steaming tea.

A week later, Sherlock was working late, adding some final touches to an investigation report in the Scotland Yard cafeteria when he heard footsteps approaching. A hand was held out under his nose - no wedding ring, he noticed. “Dr. John Watson. I don’t believe we were properly introduced last time, but I’ve heard quite some stories about you.” “Was one of them that I don’t like being interrupted while working?” Sherlock remarked acidly. But instead of withdrawing in an incensed silence as most people would, this Watson person cheerfully drew up a chair next to Sherlock and offered to help with the autopsy certificate. Sherlock blinked owlishly in surprise, once, twice, and slowly passed over a sheaf of papers to the stocky, short man wearing a striped sweater.

 

 * * * 

  
The months passed and the stocky, short man in the striped sweater started being more and more prominent in Sherlock’s life. He’d be there for most of the cases, teaming up with Sherlock to get through the paperwork, quietly watch him make groundbreaking advancements in a new experiment and just as quietly watch him viciously tear up all his work in a matter of seconds.

But Sherlock’s reluctance to have anyone in his life was not explained by his usual statement that he worked better alone. Nor did anyone buy his excuse that he was too busy for social life or friends. No, Sherlock refused contact with people for a reason. There was a wall of reasons around him, which did not allow him to have friends, lady friends (Mrs. Hudson had not stopped bothering him) or companions. And these reasons he did not even admit to himself. But during dark nightmares, in which he’d toss and turn and wake up screaming James’s name, he’d see himself reunited with his twin, only to have him cruelly wrenched away and Sherlock would always be standing there, watching, crying, unable to move, unable to save his brother in his dreams. You see, Sherlock was afraid - no, he was terrified to the bone - that he might become close to someone and that this someone would yet again leave. Sherlock knew that he’d much rather be hated, lonely, despised, belittled and humiliated rather than be dependent on someone and broken by their departure. In Sherlock’s life, those he loved never stayed.

 

 * * * 

  
John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head, the rich curls tumbling around his neck; the light shining through them made it look as though he had an areola, a halo. ‘Sherlock - an angel fallen from grace, cursed to a lifetime of wandering among us, mere mortals,’ John thought to himself with a grin.

He was glad that observant as Sherlock was, he lacked the ability to read minds. John’s admiration for Sherlock knew no bounds. This was a man with the brightest, sharpest mind he’d ever known. A man capable of seeing beyond people, beyond appearances. A man who only saw the truth and aimed for nothing less in his work. But this was also a damaged man. John knew that he was by far not as intelligent or clever as Sherlock, but he was a doctor. He knew damage where it was present. He knew there was hurt somewhere inside that tall, lean figure and he knew also, that at times, to heal a wound, it was better to let the pain out rather than try suppress it. So John accepted Sherlock’s childishness, his fits of rage, and his spoilt, impossible demands. He did not question Sherlock’s life choices; instead he stood by him, listened awestruck to his extraordinary findings, and assisted him on those rare occasions when Sherlock allowed it. Still, it annoyed him that he had no cure for emotional wounds. It irked John that every now and then, he’d catch a rare, faraway, _pained_ look in Sherlock’s eyes and not be able to do anything about it. He dared not inquire, since experience told him that injured creatures tended to attack ferociously when their wounds were probed. He’d come a long way to gain this much - this little actually, but far more than anyone else - of Sherlock’s trust, and he did not want to lose it. On one of the very first times they’d talked, Sherlock described his job as “a consulting detective - _the only one in the world_ ”, in a voice most people would hear as pride, but it took John to hear the tinge of sadness and loneliness.

Of course it takes one to know one, and John knew that it was thanks to his own lonesomeness and personal anguish that he was able to understand Sherlock. He had endured his own pain and received his own scars, when his beloved father had died leaving him bereaved and alone. However, he’d grown from the experience, battling against his anguish by joining the army where he’d been taught how to seal away his feelings and focus only on his body's responses. Then he’d thrown himself into intensive studying to become a doctor, and when he’d been called away to Iraq, he felt himself develop a new dimension, a new depth he never knew he could have.

Days passed, weeks, months; they’d settled into a daily routine of discussing and sharing cases at Sherlock’s flat - Sherlock would bring up his detective cases, and John, his medical ones. Then something surprising happened. John succeeded in making Sherlock laugh. It was an unexpected, unearthly, unheard sound - a rich, velvety rumble that seemed to come from the very core of the man, fizzle through every part of his body and shake the walls around them. Once that happened, John knew that Sherlock was on the slow path to recovery.

And Sherlock… well, he hardly knew what to make of the situation. He just knew that John had become second nature. He was like a protective layer; a barrier to keep out the harm. When John was around, Sherlock felt more purpose in life. The cases seemed more interesting, the experiments more successful - hell, even food seemed tastier. And John had a way of getting under Sherlock’s skin. Under his influence Sherlock found himself feeling less bitter and being less sarcastic, and instead - to his own surprise - somewhat more friendly and likable. His detective’s instinct appreciated John, yet was still wary of his closeness. But at least Sherlock let down his guard when they were together because John brought warmth with him. This strange, palpable heat would blaze through Sherlock and in this heat, Sherlock could feel his shell cracking open, splitting like the skin of an insect to reveal underneath this tender, vulnerable creature that he was constantly attempting to conceal. Sherlock had come to realize that John was more than woolly sweaters and a quick laugh. There was wisdom beyond his years, and immense courage and strength.

Yet, there was also pain. It was an old pain, one that had been dealt with and now just laid buried deep within, like an ancient scar. But it was this pain that brought them together, that bound them with an inseparable link; because knowing that someone else has been through what you have makes you see this person differently. You come to see them as an extension of yourself; a part of you that is embodied inside someone else, like a heart transplant.

So, when early one morning, John decided to walk over to Sherlock’s flat, and make use of the key that Mrs. Hudson had surreptitiously pressed into the palm of his hand with a knowing smile, while he was leaving a few weeks ago, he opened the door to hear a strange snuffling. Huddled on the floor of the living room, clad in a thin bathrobe, was a desolate, anguished, miserable Sherlock, tears freely sliding down his cheek, while he stared at a yellowed, creased letter. Unquestioningly, he raised his puffy eyes to John’s and hoarsely whispered in a cracked voice, “It’s five years today since my brother died”. And just as unquestioningly, John walked over to Sherlock, kneeled on the ground next to him and held him while he cried.

 

* * * 

  
The next day, the spring sun wakes up to the sight of a lone figure, clad in a long black coat and a blue scarf at his neck, standing with his head bowed at a grave. A single, white tulip the flower vendor outside the country cemetery gave Sherlock, hangs from his hand. Sherlock walks up to the tombstone, and with a handkerchief rubs away the remnants of soil that recent rains have splashed against the picture of a face, so identical to his own. He lays a finger against the cheek of the man in the photo, and whispers, “Thank you, James. _Thank you_. Because all this time I was so alone, and I owe you so much”. He bends to lay down the tulip and straightens slowly. Then Sherlock turns around, and with a small crooked smile playing on his lips, thoughtfully walks away, where in the distance John stands waiting for him.


End file.
